Yes, sir!
by Swiper. No swiping
Summary: A monologue about circumstances.


rifle chamber loaded check. magazine loaded check. sun starting to set check. it's time.  
check test one fire first shot hits ground and scatters the crowd to the sound of distant screams check. aim scope on screaming bitch's forehead fire two check. pause, watch the body fall in slow motion, through the scope, see the faint traces of tears in the her unfocused eyes. aim scope on her terrified child fire three check. pause, the crumpled form of the young kid, jaw once open in a horrified scream now gone slack. aim scope identify target. identify target. public security force comes running in, taking cover. one's not fast enough.  
"not fa-ast enough," sing-song.  
AIM THROUGH SCOPE identify target fire four check. hell yeah i identified the target right in his fucking forehead, check. pause, the policeman's corpse, now leaking blood onto the pavement.

 _Did_ they ever tell you about how I was a crack shot in Academy? Couldn't miss a bullseye if I tried, haha. And I did! I did, once… well, almost tried. There was this goddamn hothead of a bird who I went with through my training, you might know him. He had a bit of a chip on his shoulder, always had something to prove to me because he came from a, whatcha call it, "working class" background and didn't want people thinking that he hadn't earned his place there. Not that he didn't. He just wasn't me. He didn't have my background, my father. Good ol' dad who taught me how to put a whole military grade rifle together at age six—

bullet whizzes past, metal whistle and gunpowder stinks up the air all acrid, oh, this kitten's got claws. oh, this puppy's got teeth, they ain't me, they ain't know who i am yet, check. another pop, another bullet, nowhere close. they ain't even know where i am yet

 _You_ know, I mean, uh, I don't mean to brag or nothin' but they had to make a whole course just for me? Just because I aced all the virtual, expert-level target practice courses. Falco helped, of course. If I ever lost anything to that asshole, you know he would never let me live it down. He could beat my time in a fighter plane race no problem, and christ, I'd never hear the end of it for weeks—

light glints off another piece of metal. a barrel sticking out from behind a makeshift trashcan barricade. a slight bit of green uniform on the otherwise grey pavement check.  
fire five GOTCHA FUCKER.  
pause, through the scope the pool of blood, the pathetic cries for medic.  
check. still got it check. still got the skills check. yes sir still got it.

 _He_ always was a sore loser, Falco. I guess most people would say he had a bit of a complex. Hell, who doesn't have a complex. As much as anybody might try, you can never fully escape your circumstances. No one can blame you for that. My circumstances were just different than his. He had the inner city, I had the rural exburbs. He had the street gang, I had the stable home life. He had feathers, I had fur. Same old same old. I never faulted him for it. He sure did me, though. Every time we'd go head-to-head in target practice he couldn't ever toe the line, couldn't accept defeat. Always said it was because of my background, because of privilege. And in a way he wasn't wrong. Good ol' dad who taught me how to shoot a bottle off a fence at thirty yards at age eight. I'd like to think I'd achieved something on my own. Could've just been a flight instructor like mom. Dad, though. He always pushed me to take myself further. Go the distance. Give a hundred and ten percent. Why stop there? Give a hundred and twenty. _He_ could. I should be able to, right—

electronic screeching of sirens, finally. here comes the whole brigade check. setting up barricades ushering people out of the square. medic comes begins to lift the man's arm, right through my scope, haha. fire six check. pause, the paramedic's body pitches towards the barricade he won't be any help after all check. the other guy, the wounded one, still grabs at his arm, he's crying and shrieking for a medic now at the top of his lungs. get his head into sights check. fire seven check. pause, look through sights but then pull back. latest shot met by hail of bullets right south of perch. they found me but they missed. pause, quiet. subtle glints, calls of "BELL TOWER HE'S IN THE BELL TOWER" to each other. they found me for sure, they were bound to eventually, sloppy motherfuckers. aim at the dome of one motherfucker and fire eight check. pause, through the scope, the visor on his helmet, spiderwebbed with cracks, he falls to knees maybe not dead just severely concussed. fire nine check. fix that.

 _Peppy_ always thought so, anyway. Something that he never let up on. Always second guessing me against this higher standard of my dead dad's strategies. The great thing about the dead is they can no longer be questioned. They become saintly. Saint Dad, always doing the right thing, which as it turns out was whatever Peppy wanted. And me at age sixteen with a near-perfect Academy recommendation, just leading my own team. Providing protection to a team of engineers with experimental equipment to bolster the defense network around Area 6, me and the team. Turns out that one of those scientists, one of those engineers was a turncoat. We never did ascertain which one. We only found out about it when a corpse with a bullet hole right through the forehead turned up in the satellite's reactor room, clutching an incendiary device with enough power to blow the whole place apart at the seams. We only found out about it when, simultaneously, the defense systems spontaneously activated during a routine space patrol and took the lives of Falco Lombardi and two of the satellite's native security team, exploding their shuttle with a precision blast to the engine. Slippy and Peppy defused the bomb. We were down one man, with a mess hall full of scientists and their arms up, and me with my gun ready to fire. And Peppy kept saying, "They've surrendered, Fox. They've surrendered. Think about what your dad would do—"

a searchlight turns on, begins carving slow trails through the windows around mine. megaphone feedbacks, a negotiator. we know you're in the bell tower, it shrieks, we have you surrounded. put down your weapon and exit the bell tower immediately. if you fail to comply—get sights on a sniper trying to aim for me from what he must assume is my extreme left—if you fail to comply we will be forced to use lethal—  
"FIRE TEN CHECK YOU PIECE OF SHIT."  
a steaming kettle's voice, a scream. pause, look through scope, limp useless body with a death grip on the butt of a rifle, bleeding out through a kevlar vest and security issue cargo pants—we know your location we have you surrounded, the voice says—identify target—there is still time, put your weapon down and come down from the bell tower—identify target, identify target.

 _I just_ wasn't him. I wasn't my dad and I never could be him. Not the same. It doesn't matter how much training you put junior through. It doesn't matter how much useless advice you give junior. He's never going to be an extension of you. I was never an extension of my father, no matter how much people wanted to believe that. No matter how badly I wanted to believe that. Even though after the fact Peppy told me that it was a high pressure situation and I just handled it to the "best of my ability," I knew. I _knew_ there would be an inquest. I _knew_ that I would be discharged, I knew I killed all those people. One by one. I had the entire team of scientists lined up with their faces to the walls and I shot each one in the back, to bleed to death. One by one. _Fire one, check._ Not even a merciful death. I let them all suffer. I let them all feel it. _Fire two, check_. I knew what I was doing. I made a choice and I chose poorly. _Fire three, check_. I knew what I was doing! I knew what I was doing and I made a choice and I chose poorly! _Fire four, check._ Dad would have never made that mistake. Dad never made mistakes. He was incapable of any wrongdoing. _Fire five, check._ They dropped without making a sound. They didn't even make any indication that they were dying as their blood ran towards the cleaning drain. Total silence, except for the echoing of gunfire in the mess hall. _Fire six, check._ There was no difference between them and any of the hundred of people I killed during the war. _Fire seven, check._ There was no difference between them and any of the people that are alive now. There was no difference at all. _Fire eight, check._ They were people just like me. _Fire nine, check._ I knew there would be an inquest and I knew that I would be discharged and I knew that the end to my heroics, _MY_ efforts in the Lylat Wars would be buried. _Fire ten, check._ I knew that in the end, anything I had done would have paled in comparison to good ol' dad's legacy. I knew that in the end I would no longer be a part of my dad's legacy. A government coverup. Distancing my actions. A lack of responsibility on my part constitutes a disavowal of any responsibility by the government. Dad would be so disappointed in me. In the end, everything I did, everything I worked so hard for, didn't matter. But I wouldn't give up. I refused to let myself down. To let dad down. I can still do something that matters—

searchlight hits me right in the eyes, the finger of god, duck but they've seen me now and it's getting close to the end. they'll all be happy to know that, i can see the newspaper headlines check, me back in the headlines, check.  
"did they print a good picture of me? or one with my dad?"  
sun's gone completely down check. almost twenty-one hours now, switch on the scope's infrared if fingers would hold still stop shaking for a fucking minute, check. chest spasming can't stop it anymore, wide-eyed, can't control the breathing anymore, hard to aim, we might be getting close to the end now. spray and pray and hear them ricochet off the pavement with each thunderclap, each swell in the chorus of onlookers screaming check. fire two check. fire three check. the negotiator shouting we have you surrounded we have you surrounded we have you surrounded, check. well, detach empty magazine, press down pin one and charge one check. press down pin two and charge two check. separate receivers. pack the parts away into duffle bag.  
"that's enough for now, soldier."  
we have you surrounded, we have you surrounded, we have you surrounded.  
"good work, soldier."  
we have you surrounded, we have you surrounded, we have you surrounded, hahaha.  
"we are now executing escape plan beta."  
grab pistol, drop and high crawl to the other side of the bell tower, sit, wait a moment, check, hold up the barrel end of my pistol to my face like it's a microphone, a big smile on my face, spot lights making me squint for a moment, finally, now i'm ready, it's been a long time coming but i'm finally ready for the big day, and after all those officials give their speeches they pat me on the back and shake my hand and when general pepper pins the medal on my chest i'm putting the barrel in my mouth and when my finger's ready on the trigger i say:

On behalf of the Cornerian people and Lylatians everywhere, I am happy to accept this medal. I would like to thank my father,


End file.
